


Providence

by ignipes



Series: Morgantown [2]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-21
Updated: 2006-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:06:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few days after leaving West Virginia, the boys head to Rhode Island, where there may or may not be a tentacle monster living in the river and Sam may or may not be successful in getting Dean to talk about what happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Providence

The fires are out and the crowds are gone, but there is still smoke on the water, low and thick and pungent. In spite of the concrete and buildings all around them, it reminds Sam of quiet evenings in the forest long ago, huddled down around a campfire while the night grew darker and colder.

A cool, light rain is falling as they walk slowly along the river. There are only a few other people out at this time: couples with their heads bent close together, a few groups of college kids laughing loudly, a homeless woman picking through the litter left on the ground.

Dean stops abruptly and turns to face the river. "This is it?"

Sam stands beside him. "Somewhere around here, yeah. The article said it happened at dawn. She was down here jogging with a friend, and the friend swore something pulled her in, something with tentacles."

Dean glances at Sam, his expression skeptical. "They printed that in the newspaper?"

"Hey, people in Rhode Island are weird." Sam shrugs and looks around; there's nothing unusual about this stretch of the river bank, nothing to indicate that a monster would choose this as its feeding ground. "Besides, they've got that whole Lovecraft thing going, creatures from the deep, whatever. I guess she's not the first who's seen something, so folks are talking."

"I don't know." Dean looks up, squinting into the drizzle. "Even if there is something, I bet all the people here tonight scared it away."

"We can come back tomorrow," Sam says. He is reluctant to leave the riverside, though, unwilling to return to their tiny motel room with its the flat pillows and uncomfortable beds, to lie awake in the dark listening for the first whimper of Dean's nightmares.

"Let's hang out here for a while," Dean says with a shrug. "Who knows? We might see something."

"Alright," Sam agrees. "Maybe tentacle thing will put in an appearance."

Before Dean can start walking again, he heads over to the cement steps by the riverside and sits down. Maybe sitting still in the rain in the middle of the night isn't much better than walking around, but even in the faint light from the streetlamps and the downtown buildings, Sam can see that Dean is pale and shaky. Even though he would throw Sam in the river before admitting that he's still a little unsteady on his feet, he doesn't protest, just sits beside Sam without a word and looks down into the black, murky water.

Several minutes pass quietly. On the other side of the river, a young couple is wandering down the path, holding hands and laughing quietly, and in the distance Sam can hear the rumble of trucks on the interstate.

"So why do they do it?" Dean says suddenly. He gestures toward the row of metal braziers jutting above the surface of the water. "This fire thing."

"I don't know." They arrived when the fires were burning high, fed by black-clad people in low dark boats, poling along the river amongst the crowds and music. Sam inhales the scent of the smoke, feels it stinging his eyes. "Looks cool, I guess." It seems like reason enough.

"Yeah." Dean leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and yawns. "I guess."

"Are you tired?"

Sam keeps it casual, just a question, but he sees Dean's shoulders tense.

"I'm fine," Dean says shortly.

"We can go back to the motel. It's hard to see anything tonight, anyway."

"I'm _fine_." Though he doesn't say it out loud, there's a firm _and don't ask again_ in Dean's tone.

Sam nods and decides to ignore the unspoken warning. "Okay. It's just that--"

"What?" Dean turns to face him, annoyance written across his face. "It's just what, Sam?"

"You haven't been sleeping much these past few days."

That's an understatement, and they both know it. Dean wakes every night from nightmares, gasping and thrashing in the darkness. He refuses to say what he dreams about -- though Sam has a pretty good idea -- and he refuses to tell Sam anything.

Instead of answering, Dean looks across the river again, his jaw set and stubborn.

"Look, I know I don't know what happened," Sam begins, then he stops.

He doesn't know, but he can guess well enough. The bruises on Dean's wrists and ankles and ribs are still livid, the cuts on his chest slowly healing. But more than that, there's a wariness about him that disturbs Sam. Dean isn't supposed to glance over his shoulder when they cross a dark parking lot or start nervously when a door slams, isn't supposed to hand the car keys over to Sam without protest or fall asleep on the motel bed farther from the door. He isn't supposed to let Sam sit on the edge of his bed and rub his back and fill the night with quiet nonsense chatter, never once trying to push Sam away.

That, Sam thinks, is more unsettling than the nightmares themselves. Dean -- as he usually is, as he should be -- doesn't let himself be comforted.

He isn't supposed to do those things, but he's doing them anyway, and Sam figures he's got nothing to lose at this point. "Dean, I'm worried about you."

For a moment he's sure that's the absolute wrong thing to say, sure that Dean is going to shut him down and bolt away, and that will be the end of it.

But Dean only shakes his head and looks over at Sam. "When did you become such a mother hen?" he asks, smiling crookedly. "Sam, I'm fine." After a second he adds, "Seriously."

"You're having nightmares--"

"Oh, you're one to talk, psychic dream boy."

"Dean, really. You're--"

"_Fine_."

Sam is insistent. "Look, man, I understand about the nightmares, okay? I really do. I'm the frickin' nightmare expert here, and trust me when I say that it doesn't do any good to keep it all in--"

Dean stands up abruptly and walks a few steps away, along the steps by the water. He turns away from Sam and shoves his hands into his pockets.

Sam shakes his head, sighing. It's like talking to a goddamned brick wall sometimes.

"You'd think..." Dean's voice is low, but Sam hears the words clearly. He shifts on the steps and turns toward Dean. "You'd think it would make it better, them being dead."

Sam feels a sharp pang of something -- maybe guilt, maybe relief, he doesn't examine it too closely -- but he says nothing.

"Stuck there the whole time," Dean goes on, "telling them you're going to blow their fucking brains out first chance you get, make them pay for every goddamned thing they do. Stupid threats, 'cause they're calling all the shots, but maybe you believe it a little bit, believe that killing them would make it better. But now..." He shakes his head and looks down, kicks at the cement. "They're dead, and it makes no fucking difference."

Holding his breath and waiting, Sam doesn't say anything.

Dean exhales a short, sharp laugh. "You'd think it would make it -- make it easier. Easier to snap the hell out of it."

He sits down again, several feet away, staring at the river.

Sam stands up and walks over to Dean, sits down beside him.

"Dean--"

"Sam, don't."

"I'm not. I won't." He hesitates for a second, then puts his arm around Dean's shoulder. Just like Dean used to do with him, when they were kids and he was scared of going on a hunt, scared of staying home alone, scared of all those things younger brothers are allowed to fear. "Just stop being so damn hard on yourself, okay?"

"What? I'm not--"

"Yes, you are, dumbass. If it had been the other way around and Walter had grabbed me instead of you, would you be sitting here telling me to snap out of it?"

"That's dif--"

"Bullshit. Stop it. You're -- just stop it."

Dean opens his mouth like he's going to reply, then he closes it again and remains quiet.

Maybe silence isn't agreement, and maybe it's not much, Sam thinks, but it's a start. The furious, painful knot that's been in his gut since he first found Dean in that glass factory starts to loosen. Sam relaxes a little bit, squeezes Dean's shoulder reassuringly, and is ridiculously relieved when Dean doesn't pull away.

They fall into an easy silence, listening to the river hissing by the cement below them, to the distant roar of cars in the highways, the fading voices of the few other people still out and about. The rain has stopped, though the night is still cool and damp, and on the opposite bank a cluster of college kids are walking along, arguing politics or religion in low, lazy, late-night voices.

"You think there really is a tentacle monster in this river?" Dean says after a while, breaking the silence. His voice is light, only a little bit forced.

"Maybe," Sam replies. "Maybe it's a pollution monster. Can't imagine anything else living down there."

"If either of us has to swim to investigate, you're volunteering."

"Ew, no way. If we have to swim, I say we let the tentacle monster live."

"Even though it's eating people?"

"It sucks, man, but the food chain's a bitch."

Dean laughs, and that isn't forced at all. "Nature, red in tooth and tentacle."

"Damn straight."

Another few moments pass, and Dean clears his throat. "Sam."

Sam waits.

"I, um... I mean, I didn't, but I should -- 'cause you -- and, um--"

Sam smiles. "You're welcome," he says. _Any time_.


End file.
